Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, FOOL'S GOLD, by HERBERT KAUFMAN


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

FOOL'S GOLD, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: See him there, cold and gray
Last Line: He can't play.
Subject(s): Ambition; Business; Gold; Investments; Businessmen; Businesswomen; Stocks; Bonds


SEE him there, cold and gray,
Watch him as he tries to play;
No, he does n't know the way.
He began to learn too late.
She's a grim old hag, is Fate,
For she let him have his pile,
Smiling to herself the while,
Knowing what the cost would be,
When he'd found the Golden Key.
Had the money hunger bad,
Mad for money, piggish mad.
Did n't let a joy divert him,
Did n't let a sorrow hurt him,
Let his friends and kin desert him,
While he planned and plugged and worried.
Nothing stopped him as he scurried,
On his quest for gold and power.
Every single wakeful hour,
With a money thought he'd dower.
All the while as he grew older,
And grew bolder, he grew colder.
And he thought that some day
He would take time to play,
But say—
He was wrong.
Life's a song.
In the spring
Youth can sing and can fling,
But joys wing,
When we're older,
Like birds when it's colder.
The roses were red as he went rushing by,
And cloud-woven tapestries hung in the sky,
And the clover was waving
'Neath honey bees slaving.
A bird over there
Rondelayed a soft air.
But the man could n't spare
Time for gathering flowers,
Or resting in bowers,
Or gazing at skies
That gladdened the eyes.
So he kept on and swept on
Through mean, sordid years.
Now he's up to his ears
In the choicest of stocks.
He owns endless blocks
Of houses and shops,
And the stream never stops
Pouring into his banks.
I suppose that he ranks
Pretty near to the top;
What I have won't sop
His ambition one tittle,
And yet with my little
I'm sure I'd not trade
With the bargain he made.
Just watch him to-day,
See him trying to play.
He's come back for spring skies,
But they're in a new guise.
Winter's here, all is gray.
The birds are away,
The meadows are brown,
The leaves lie aground,
And the gay brook that wound
With a swirling and whirling
Of waters is furling
Its bosom in ice.
And he has n't the price,
With all of his gold,
To buy what he sold;
He knows now the cost
Of the Springtime he lost,
Of the flowers he tossed
From his way,
And say
He'd pay
Any price if the day
Could be made not so gray—
He can't play.





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